Hotlanta (2 page)

Continuing to rinse her hands, Sydney turned her attention to the reflection in the mirror. With a frustrated sigh she patted down the wiry curls that had popped out of place in the past forty-five minutes. More than anything, Sydney wished her curl pattern were just a little looser so it would have that sexy, boho-chic look that Tracee Ellis Ross rocked on
Girlfriends.
Granted, Sydney loved her curls, but sometimes she just wished Marcus would step down off his
all-natural-beauty soapbox long enough for her mom's hairdresser to put the occasional quick press in it.

Though Lord knew, Sydney would never utter another bad word about her ‘fro if her rather significant bottom would disappear. Sure, most black folks considered the tiny waist and huge booty combo that the identical twins shared off the chain, but not Sydney. She'd have given anything to drop about ten pounds and be a perfect size four. Not too big, not too small: just right. If Lauren thought it was cute to look all soft and squishy, that was her business. Sydney was focused on losing some of the junk in her trunk before the Benefit Gala, even if she had to live on nothing but diet pills, wheat grass, and vitamin water to do it.

Several deep breaths later, Sydney's heart rate finally decreased enough for her to remove her hands from under the faucet. As she turned toward the hand towel dispenser, the sudden vibration in her back pocket startled her. Forgetting all about her dripping hands, Sydney quickly pulled the cell out and answered the call. “This is Sydney,” she eagerly offered.

“Hey there, Ladybug,” a deep, raspy voice responded.

Sydney faltered momentarily. “Dice? I mean…Daddy?” she stuttered in shock.

“Yes ma'am. It's me,” the distinctive voice continued as Sydney's heart rate started to race again. “I'm home, sweetie. Your daddy is finally home.”

Contrary to the static-filled, faraway-sounding collect calls from the Georgia State Correctional Facility that Sydney had become accustomed to over the past eleven years, Dice Jackson—the twins' biological father—sounded impressively clear…and near. “What? When? How?” she questioned as the water dripped down her arms and onto her jacket.

“They released me early this afternoon,” he continued.

“But you didn't tell me…I mean, where are you now?” Sydney responded, still trying to get her bearings. The moment Sydney had anticipated for over half her life had finally arrived. Somehow, she'd never envisioned it happening while she was hiding out inside the Brookhaven bathroom.

“I know, I know. I didn't want to say anything, get your hopes up, and then have to disappoint my angel again. But I'm here now. I'm at your Aunt Lorraine's and I want to see you…and your sister.”

“Oh, damn!” Lauren yelled as she tossed her MAC Lipglass onto the passenger seat and swerved on two wheels onto Brockett Road, narrowly missing the rear bumper of a broken-down car parked at the intersection. The light from a busted street lamp glinted through her windshield, the glare making it almost impossible to see. Stars dotted the dark sky and the night air was crisp; traces of the evening's flash thunderstorm made shallow puddles inside the street's potholes.

She breathed a sigh of relief that this time she'd recovered without crashing. In the two years since she'd gotten her learner's permit, she'd had enough accidents to almost double her stepfather's car insurance rates and give him enough reasons to bar her from Baby, her shiny black Saab convertible, forever. And driving privileges were a must if she was
going to make it to all the go-sees Darryl, her new modeling/talent agent, was lining up for her each weekend. She sure as hell couldn't count on her sister to take her—she was too preoccupied with saving the world, planning the Homecoming Benefit Gala, and being all up in her trifling boyfriend Marcus's face to actually give a crap about helping Lauren out.

“Cash rules everything around me, Cream! Get the money, dolla dolla bills y'all!” Lauren bobbed her head along with the Wu-Tang Clan CD she was playing for inspiration as she pulled into the decrepit parking lot strewn with empty beer bottles and other assorted litter. This was where Trip Johnson, the famous rap video director, would decide which girls got to star in the video for Thug Heaven's next single. Lauren was convinced this was where she was going to become famous.

The blast of music from Lauren's cell phone interrupted her impromptu Wu-Tang karaoke moment. “You all right?” Lauren heard her kinda-sorta boyfriend, Donald Aller, yelling into her phone. “What's all that screaming? And why you sound all out of breath?”

“I was rapping, loser.” Lauren laughed. “I thought I wasn't ever going to get here—damn Friday evening traffic.”

“So, nobody in your family knows where you are right now?” Donald questioned.

“Are you kidding me? Keisha Duke would rather lay
down in the driveway and let me climb behind the wheel of the family CL5 and drive full speed over her prone body, then back up and do it again and again before she'd approve of her precious seventeen-year-old daughter traveling to the hood to stuff her ass into an extra-small pair of La Perla hot pants and shake her half-naked badonkadonk in the new Thug Heaven video. In the Swats, no less.” Lauren laughed. “Ain't no way. They think I'm at practice.

“My agent told me I have a serious shot at this one,” Lauren said to Donald as she turned off the engine and checked her hair in the rearview mirror. “He said all I have to do is show up in something hot and super sexy and be ready to impress Trip with my moves.”

“You been practicing, right?”

“Come on now—I've been studying BET like it's the SAT. You don't have to be a rocket scientist to know what they're looking for: You gotta be pretty, have long hair, know how to dance, and be real limber. Oh, and show more skin than clothes.”

“Well, ain't no doubt you fit all those categories.” Donald laughed.

“Damn, Skippy. I'm about to pimp this right here,” she said as she took a swig of Diet Coke, dusted bronzer on her face, and fished around for her misplaced Lipglass—the latest shade of the Viva Glam collection was her current obsession. “Okay, gotta run,” she told Donald.

“All right, sweetie—break a leg.”

“Call you later,” she said, and hung up the phone. Then she adjusted her cropped blazer and stepped out of the car. Glass crunched under her feet. “We ain't in Buckhead anymore, Dorothy.” She laughed to herself as she made her way toward the cameras, consciously putting a little extra twist to her hips for anyone watching. She spotted Dough Boy and Candy Man in the middle of a sea of guys in baggy pants and oversize white T's and jerseys, Heinekens and Red Stripes sweating in their palms. She tossed her hair and put on her best sexy smile.

“Over there,” a big, burly, bald-headed bruiser shouted gruffly, folding his arms for emphasis. He was as tall and wide as a wall; Lauren could barely see the crowd beyond his girth.

“Pardon me?” She looked over each of her shoulders to see if he was talking to someone else.

“Pardon you, huh? Let me rephrase.” He talked loud enough to draw the attention of a few of Thug Heaven's boys. “Take yo' ass over there with all the other yams and wait your turn. Mr. Pinner will start calling groups out shortly. Thank you.”

Dayum!

Embarrassed, Lauren hurried in the direction of his pointed finger. The laughter from the boys filled the air like it was her personal walking soundtrack. Now was all
that
necessary? She was even more jittery when she got to the other side of the parking lot and realized that there were a good forty girls ahead of her—all in various states of undress, looking much more scandalous than even Lauren could muster. They were waiting their turn to dance in groups of three for the choreographer, a random white guy with a pinched-up face, and a white woman who appeared to be as stiff as the clipboard she was holding.

“Next!” the clipboard woman yelled. “Ladies—pay attention! We do not have all night. When it's your turn, do the dance the choreographer demonstrates for you, then step over here to Mr. Pinner, who will let you know if you're in or not. And turn off the damn cell phones!”

Lauren pulled her jacket a little tighter around her chest, then thought better of it when she took another look at the amply exposed skin of the girls in front of her.
Now's not the time to be shy,
she thought as she unfastened the top button, sucked in her stomach, squared her shoulders to make her chest look bigger, and tried to reclaim the warm and fuzzy feeling of confidence she'd had on the drive over.

A couple of the thugs walked over, clapping and rubbing their hands together like they were about to say grace. “There's some hoes in this house, there's some hoes in this house!” one said, breaking out into song. Another walked right up to the two girls standing in front of Lauren and started kicking game.

“So, how bad you wanna be in this video?” one with a twinkling gold grill asked, his eyes moving down from their breasts to their hips. “'Cause me and Dough, we can make it happen. If you can make it happen,” he added. But this time he looked at Lauren.

“Oh, yeah?” one of the girls said, stepping up to him and turning his face back toward hers. “I like a brother who can make it happen, especially if he's bringing Dough.”

“That's what I'm talking about,” the other guy said, clapping his hands.

“What about you, shawty?” Gold Grill asked in a thick southern drawl, shifting his attention again to Lauren.

Lauren froze. Was he serious? She didn't know whether to puke or run but figured if she didn't say anything he'd leave her alone.

When he realized she wasn't paying him any mind, he got ugly. “Forget you, then. This ain't no place for children. Got plenty ‘nuff grown-up ass to go around,” he said. The other girls rolled their eyes and fell out laughing.

Just as the group ahead of her reached the clipboard lady, Lauren's Sidekick rang out Cee-Lo's “Closet Freak.” It was Sydney.

“What?” she whispered, so that nobody would notice her talking.

“Listen, Daddy called me. He's out. He's staying at Aunt Lorraine's in the West End and he wants us to come see him.
I'm heading over there tomorrow morning before my charity work. You in?”

Lauren reeled back from the phone like it was a scorching eight hundred degrees.

“Lauren? Can you hear me? Where are you? What's with that loud crunk shit?”

“Never mind the music,” Lauren snapped as she watched the girls finish the dance and walk over to Mr. Pinner. Just that second, she was sorry that, in a weaker state, in the rush of excitement about securing an agent and her first video go-see, she'd told her twin about the whole video thing. Somewhere, somehow, that mess was going to come back to haunt her—this much, she knew. “I'm busy.”

“Did you even hear what I said? Daddy's out. And he wants to see his girls.”

“Oh,
now
he wants to see us? Eleven years later?” Lauren snarked. The mere mention of her father dragged up memories of all the family dirt she tried so desperately to forget. Her mom didn't want anything to do with Dice and had forbidden her daughters to contact him under any circumstances. After all Keisha had done to make a better life for them, the idea that Sydney actually kept in touch with the bastard who'd left their family high and dry made her nauseous.

“Whatever,” Sydney said, and the phone went dead.

“Damn!” Lauren said between clenched teeth as she looked at her cell to see if that heiffa really had hung up on
her. She was about to call her sister back and give her a good and righteous curse-out when Clipboard Lady yelled, “Next!” in her direction.

Lauren put her Sidekick on vibrate, tossed it into her purse, and strutted her way toward the dance area. All distractions aside, she had every intention of nailing her steps, particularly since most of the girls before her hadn't been able to get the choreography. As the captain of the varsity dance team at Brookhaven Prep, she had the uncanny ability to imitate, upon one showing, any choreography presented to her. Not to mention, she knew how to work her sexiness to make the football players' tongues wag.

The music was cued up and the choreographer quickly ran through a tight sequence of steps. She watched him intently and committed them to memory. The music was cued up again, and they were counted down. Five, six, seven, eight!

She and the two girls who were in front of her bounced and threw their hands in the air. Pivot. Pivot. Turn. The music burned through Lauren, and she popped her limbs to the beat. Then she turned to twist into a roll. But instead of going left as directed, Lauren dived right. Right into another girl's breasts.

“Damn!” she yelled, practically falling backward.

“Stop the music—just stop it,” Clipboard Lady yelled. “Next!”

“But we didn't even get to finish our routine,” one of the girls whined. “She ruined our chance!”

Lauren said nothing. She was shaking. When it came to dancing, she never, ever made mistakes.

“Jessica, send those two over to me,” yelled Mr. Pinner, who was standing a few yards away with the entourage, all of whom were grinning from ear to ear.

“What about this one?” Clipboard asked, holding Lauren by the shoulder.

Pinner flicked his wrist away dismissively and turned back to his crew, who by then had circled around the two girls like vultures swooping down on their prey.

Lauren slunk back to her ride.

“Well, if it isn't Pardon Me,” someone called out after her. She tried not to give him too much attention—just kept walking. “I'm sayin' if you wanna be down, you could always just go down, shawty.” He laughed evilly.

Lauren convinced herself not to Marion Jones it the rest of the way to the car, but she locked the doors as soon as she slammed the driver's side shut. Just then, she felt her cell phone vibrating in the purse on her lap. The number was unfamiliar.

“What?” she practically yelled into her phone.

“Hey, baby girl,” the man on the other end said slowly. “That the way you always answer your phone?”

Lauren should have expected that her dumb-ass sister would give their sperm donor her cell phone number.

“You got the wrong number,” she barked, determined to keep the conversation short and simple.

“Come on, Dewdrop. Don't do me like that,” Dice implored, pulling out Lauren's childhood nickname for old time's sake. “Your sister gave me your number. But don't worry, she already warned me that you probably don't want to be bothered with me.”

“Well, for once, my sister got the message right,” Lauren snapped.

“You need to know I've been wanting to see you for the longest time, but since your mama wouldn't bring y'all to see me…” Dice continued.

“First of all, don't blame my mother for us not seeing you. You're the one who got locked up,” Lauren said through clenched teeth, cutting her father's sentence short. “Seems like she managed to make all the right decisions for us without you, so don't you ever question her. And second, I ain't Sydney. You may have fooled her into thinking you care, but you're not fooling me. Now if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be, and it ain't with you.”

“Well, baby girl,” Dice said, resignation creeping into his voice, “if you change your mind, I'm at 1315 Hope Street. Your Aunt Lorraine will be happy to let you in.”